Death of a Cab Driver
by Artax is Dead
Summary: Abdul held back a chuckle, pretending he heard the her say “flatten” instead of “flatter.” Regardless of the pig’s words, both actions would prove fruitless because of her grotesque size and horrid face. “No flattery, simply words. What Abdul do for


_I'd just like to start off by saying I'm NOT a racist. i have the depictions of these characters from stereotypes, and then the african american lady down the street that yells stuff out as people run by. that's all. i love black people. i love arab people. this wasn't racist. love you all D_

* * *

Crazy Abdul. Everyone in New York City knew him, loved him but feared him at the same time. After all, how could you not fear a guy that went ninety miles an hour down the Lincoln Tunnel? On the wrong side of the road? Everyone knew that Abdul had a death wish, or was at least _teasing_ death. Ninety miles an hour towards oncoming traffic in the Lincoln tunnel… suicide.

There were certain things about the crazy taxi driver that made him untouchable. He was sitting comfortably with Jackie Estacado, a mafia prince. Because of this, Abdul was as good as a made man. If anyone even thought about hurting one scrap of cloth on his turban, they'd get a personal visit from one of Paulie's boys. And that was something no one in New York wanted.

Paulie had been slowly losing his grip on reality. A once beautiful mob boss, Paulie first started to go sour when he found out his wife was actually in love with another man. When Paulie found out he eloquently yelled, "that God fucking damned bitch better run for high fucking ground before I get through wid 'er!" That night Paulie took his wife and killed the man she loved before her eyes, then shot her in the face.

That sick bastard was now going after one of his own; none other than Jackie Estacado. Since Paulie was trying to kill Estacado, Crazy Abdul now feared for his life, playing a guessing game at when Paulie would send out a man to kill him just for fun. "Everyday like playing Russian roulette!" Abdul would say to his fellow taxi drivers over cigarettes and stale coffee. "Everyday I run to car, run from car. Kiss wife, slap wife. And all along I fear for life!"

Even though Abdul believed the mafia now wanted him dead he still got up at five o'clock in the morning everyday, donned his turban, faced west and prayed. He still ran down the block to the garage with his taxi, punched in, and sat in the cab listening to what Americans called "techno" before taking off at fifty miles an hour at six thirty in the morning. Abdul would usually drive to the airport because it had the best fares, and he could make quite a pretty penny taking customers to various places in the city.

"ABDUL!" his supervisor would scream from his small office in the corner of the garage. "HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY MAKE THIS MUCH MONEY FRUM ALL DAT??" Abdul, however racist, hated black people in America. How rude, to address him so. The Italians, like Jackie, knew what proper respect was. "UM.. 'SCUSE ME, ABDUL. I AS'ED YOU A SIMPLE QUESTION!!"

He cursed in Farsi. "Er…ladies love me! What me say?" the answer seemed to suffice.

"Mm, mm, mm," the rather plump woman said to herself. "That crazy ass bastard thinkin' he can give _me_ attitude. He ain't no Taliban!"

That's how Crazy Abdul's life was: rather calm, each day being slightly less safe than the previous one depending on traffic. At least…until that crazy day where Jackie Estacado died for the first time.

**Day: Same day as Jackie's first death, time: unknown.**

"ABDUL! YOU GET YO' BIG ASS UP HEA!" his supervisor stood with her fat hands on her fatter hips.

"Yes, yes," he bowed multiple times. "What Abdul do for you?"

"DUN EVEN TRY TO FLATTER ME WID ALL DAT FLATTERY, ABDUL!"

Abdul held back a chuckle, pretending he heard the fat bitch say "flatten" instead of "flatter." Regardless of the pig's words, both actions would prove fruitless because of her grotesque size and horrid face. "No flattery, simply words. What Abdul do for you?"

She hobbled down the two steps and stuck a Cheetos stained thumb at his face. "ABDUL I FIN'LLY TOLD THE REST OF DA DEPARTMENT ABOUT YOU!" Abdul merely blinked. "AND IT JUST SO HAPPENS THAT DEY DON'T LIKE DA WAY YOU DO BUSINESS! WE HAD A MAN TAIL YOU THE OTHER DAY AND LOOK WHAT HE FOUND OUT!" she threw a sheet of paper in his face with her free hand; Abdul let it fall to the wet, greasy floor. "DEY FOUND OUT DAT YOU'RE CHEATING OUT THE OTHER COMPANIES BY GOING TO THE AIR PORTS!"

Abdul blinked and rubbed his hands together. "Some sort of trick! Abdul never go to airport! Ever!" she shook her head and turned to walk up the steps. "Listen fat bitch! You no report! You report, me kill you!" she turned to retort, but Abdul had already picked up a screw driver and was holding it menacingly. "I kill you! No lies!"

She shook her head. "You're signin' your own death note, cabby!" she walked into her office and shut the door as she muttered to herself. Abdul heard a click as she slid the lock into place.

Abdul cursed his luck, cursed his life. They were onto his game. He knew that if he stayed by Canal Street Station, he would get stupid commuters dumb enough to take a cab to their destination instead of walking, but he couldn't risk it. Going to the airports was his trump card, the way he made cash; he couldn't give that up for anything.

He could try killing that fat bitch, she seemed weak. But throwing off the cops could be a problem now that he no longer had Jackie to help him. God damn Paulie and all the trouble he was making. If not for that fat fuck Abdul would still be driving Jackie around, making about three times the amount that he usually did for a drive down three blocks from a subway station. Too bad that kid was dead.

Abdul carefully spread his bead mat onto his seat and kissed it once in prayer, then entered the cab. The dials were all changed from the night driver, much to Abdul's dismay. He slowly changed everything to the way he liked it, and then slowly slid the key into the starter. He paused, hearing the engine rev and begin to cool. Something didn't feel right. It was if that was the last time he'd turn the key, the last time he'd hear that engine rev as it started.

"Stupid superstitious bastard," he teased himself, and hooked his seatbelt.


End file.
